That note shattered something inside Keith.
He stared at it, fingers trembling slightly, the weight of the revelation pressing down like a boulder on his chest. His father hadn't just lied—he had murdered Mr. Richard. The man he claimed to have suspended was gone... gone. Killed. By his own hand.
Keith had always felt an undercurrent of something dark swirling beneath his father's composed demeanor. There were moments—fleeting, quickly dismissed—when Michael Janes' calm eyes seemed too still, too rehearsed. But Keith had never imagined this. Never truly allowed himself to believe that behind that mask of elegance and reason lived something so monstrous.
The thought echoed endlessly in his mind:
His father was a murderer.
It clanged like a bell in a quiet room, sharp and merciless. His chest ached, torn between disbelief and cold, rising certainty. The very mansion that had raised him, clothed him in silk and carved mahogany, now felt suffocating. Its marble walls, once regal, now loomed like prison bars—hiding secrets, sheltering evil.
He wanted to run. Flee. Rip away from the polished lies of Janes' legacy and never look back. But then, something inside him stiffened.
No.
This was not the time to run.
It was the time to watch. To uncover. To catch his father red-handed—and expose the truth from within the shadows.
A plan began to form in his mind like lightning across a dark sky:
The security cameras. The mansion had dozens—hidden in corners, tucked behind ornate carvings, embedded in hallways and chambers. They watched everyone. Perhaps now, someone would finally watch him.
To most, it would seem absurd—a child hacking into a system as complex and guarded as the Janes Mansion's surveillance. But Keith was no ordinary boy. Even at nine, he had left every tutor in awe. Numbers danced at his fingertips. Angles whispered their truths. Distances, weights, dimensions—he could calculate them all with just a glance, as if the world was a formula waiting to be solved.
His mind didn't just understand structures—it saw through them.
While other children played with puzzles, Keith could sketch the mansion's inner architecture after a single walk through its halls. Calculations came as naturally to him as breathing. Security codes? Algorithms? Patterns? He could see their rhythms before they even appeared.
Yes—he would get into the system.
He would see.
And when the moment came, he would no longer be the boy who asked polite questions at dinner.
He would be the witness.
The reckoning.
It didn't take long.
Keith's fingers moved with mechanical precision over the keys, his thoughts far ahead of each command line. The Mansion's security system—layered and fortified—was no match for his mind. In a matter of minutes, he bypassed the encryptions and reached the archives. The recordings were his.
He took a breath, almost hesitant now. This was the moment he'd waited for—the moment of truth.
But nothing, nothing, could have prepared him for what he was about to see.
The footage loaded.
At first, it was just a dimly lit room. Stone walls. A single bulb swinging from the ceiling. Shadows stretched like claws. Then—movement. A figure. And then another.
Keith's eyes froze on the second one.
His father.
Michael Janes stood in the center of an empty room, his suit disheveled, face twisted in a way Keith had never seen before—not at dinner, not in family meetings, not even during his rare outbursts of rage.
He was holding something. A knife.
The boy—maybe thirteen, maybe younger—was pleading. Crying. Screaming.
But Michael didn't stop.
Keith watched, paralyzed, as the man he once believed to be the pillar of all things noble and composed began stabbing the child—over and over again. Each thrust was desperate. Brutal. Deliberate. The boy's screams were spontaneously imagined because footage did not have audio option, echoed through his mind like cries of a dying animal, until they faded into an unbearable silence, as boy finally gave up his life.
Keith's breath caught in his throat.
A sharp pain pierced through his chest. His vision blurred at the edges. His heart pounded—then slowed. His hands, once steady, turned ice-cold. Pupils dilated, blood drained from his face, and a chilling numbness swept over his limbs.
He slammed the laptop shut.
Silence.
Only the sound of his own shallow breathing.
His body began to shiver—not from fear, but from something deeper. He didn't feel afraid. He felt... burdened. The pressure wasn't to save himself—it was the crushing weight of vengeance. Of justice. Of voices now silenced forever.
But why?
Why were they killed? What threat did they pose?
They were Needies, yes. The powerless. The voiceless. The ones born outside the gleaming circle of privilege.
But that alone? That couldn't justify this madness—this slaughter. Could it?
Were the lives of the Needies so worthless in the eyes of his family?
He sat motionless, a storm churning behind his wide, glassy eyes. The questions piled like thunderclouds, each one heavier than the last. His heart screamed for answers.
Then—
A knock at the door.
A single, soft tap.
Keith stiffened. The shivering stopped.
The knock came again—soft, rhythmic, familiar.
Keith's tense frame loosened just a little. He knew that pattern. It was Watson.
He rose from the edge of his bed, wiped his damp palms on his trousers, and opened the door.
There stood his younger brother—barefoot, cheeks slightly flushed, holding a tray covered with a kitchen cloth that looked too big for his small hands.
"Watson…" Keith's voice was gentle. He forced a smile. "Why are you awake this late?"
Watson tilted his head, eyes wide with concern. "Big brother, you left the table so suddenly... I was worried."
Keith's eyes softened. Even in this house of shadows and cruelty, Watson's heart remained untouched—still warm, still whole.
Before Keith could respond, Watson held the tray forward.
"Mom said you'd be hungry, so… I brought this."
Keith hesitated for a moment, then took the tray with care. "Thank you, Watson," he said with a faint smile. "But I'm really not hungry."
He turned to set the tray down on the table nearby, the weight of his thoughts still heavy behind his eyes.
A pause followed. The kind of pause that said the visit wasn't just about food.
"Big brother…" Watson spoke softly, hesitantly. "Can I ask you something?"
Keith nodded, still facing the tray. "Go ahead."
He slowly peeled back the kitchen cloth—some grilled chicken, mashed potatoes, and a small bowl of fruit. It smelled like comfort. But tonight, comfort felt distant.
Watson's voice dropped into a murmur. "Why are you always so sad?"
Keith froze.
The words hit harder than the truth he had seen just minutes ago. He hadn't realized how visible his sorrow had become—how deeply his little brother had been watching.
He slowly turned back around, his eyes finally meeting Watson's.
"Sad?" he echoed, then allowed a bittersweet smile to touch his lips. "Perhaps… because I can feel the pain of others as if it were my own."
Watson blinked, confused. "What pain?"
Keith crouched down until he was eye-level with his brother. He rested a hand gently on Watson's shoulder.
"The pain that Mom, Dad, and Jason cause… to those who weren't born into our family. The Needies. The ones they look down on just because they weren't born with titles or wealth."
His voice was quiet but firm, heavy with conviction. "We're all human, Watson. We all breathe the same air. So why should anyone have the right to hurt someone just for being different? Do you think that's fair?"
Watson's eyes widened slightly, the innocence in them slowly filling with uncertainty. "What things are you talking about, Big Brother?"
Keith faltered. The images of the recording returned—blood, screaming, the lifeless body of a boy.
He looked away, blinking hard. "Things like… like…" he sighed and stood upright, brushing a hand over Watson's hair. "Never mind. I don't even understand it myself."
He turned away, his shoulders heavy with things unspoken. "You should go now. It's late. You need to sleep."
Watson hesitated, then nodded. Without another word, he turned and padded quietly down the hall, leaving Keith alone again in the dim apartment.
The silence returned—but this time, it felt lonelier than before.
On the next morning...
Breakfast in the Janes Mansion was not just a meal—it was an unspoken ritual. At exactly 8:30 AM, every member of the family was expected to be seated in the main hall, dressed and composed, as a sign of unity and discipline. The long polished table, with its glimmering silverware and steaming platters, awaited the clink of spoons and murmurs of polite conversation. But on this morning, one chair remained conspicuously empty.
Keith was absent.
Each passing minute stretched the silence tighter, like a string threatening to snap. At the head of the table, Michael Janes sat rigid, jaw clenched, the tension in his broad shoulders betraying his rising anger. His fork hovered above his plate, untouched.
Finally, he broke the silence. "Why is he late?" His voice was low but heavy, directed at Dina, seated to his right. She, as Keith's mother, was expected to have the answers.
Dina lifted her gaze slowly. Her voice was soft, colored with a kind of tired sorrow. "He... he was upset last night. About Mr. Richard. I think he stayed up late."
Michael's brows shot up. He shoved his plate away with a metallic scrape, stood abruptly, and slammed his palm against the table, drawing a few startled gasps.
"Are you justifying his disobedience?" he barked, his voice echoing off the high ceilings. The chandelier above swayed slightly from the force of his motion.
Dina flinched, lips pressing into a thin line. She knew Michael's temper all too well—sharp, sudden, and unforgiving. Silence, she had learned, was the safest answer.
But Jason—obedient, and rarely confrontational—found his voice. His knuckles whitened as he gripped the edge of the table. "Father," he began, carefully, "you know Keith isn't like the rest of us. Ignoring his questions and defiance won't fix anything. Maybe... maybe it's time someone taught him the meanings behind our rituals. Not just force them on him."
The room held its breath. It wasn't often that Jason spoke back—especially not like this.
Michael's glare met his son's eyes, a silent battle stretching between them. But something shifted. The hardness in Michael's gaze softened, just enough for the room to feel it. He looked at Jason for a long moment, as though weighing the truth in his words.
Without another word, Michael turned. His boots struck the marble floor with a cold finality as he strode toward the door, leaving behind a table that was no longer just about breakfast—but about cracks forming beneath a flawless legacy.
After Michael had stormed out, silence lingered like smoke. Dina gently gestured for little Watson to leave the hall. Her voice, when it came, was barely above a whisper. "Keith has never been late before… Maybe Mr. Richard truly meant something to him."
Jason exhaled sharply. "He respected Mr. Richard, yes—but he should also respect Dad's decisions."
Dina's gaze drifted to the far wall, lost in quiet sorrow. "But why was Mr. Richard's name even in the Destiny Box? He was already a member of the Entrusted class—what higher position could he possibly want?"
The Destiny Box—black colored, with a bright red logo indicating danger—sat at the heart of the Saturday night royal parties, that were held in the royal hall of the Mansion. The Needies placed their names inside, risking their lives, hoping to be chosen as Entrusted: a class that served the Nobles in all the roles from security to espionage, often with generous rewards. But one name was always selected by the Nobles for something darker. A sacrifice. A prey.
Jason's jaw tightened. "His name wasn't in the box," he said, bitterly. "Aunt Evelene asked for Mr Richard as a prey that night. And Dad... well, he never says no to her."
Before Dina could speak, Keith entered the hall. His eyes were red, hollow—he looked like he hadn't slept at all. Wordlessly, he pulled out his chair and sat, ignoring the silence he walked into. Though he had overheard their talk, he feigned ignorance, focusing only on his breakfast. Besides, he already knew who murdered Mr. Richard and how, as he had witnessed in one of the camera recordings.
Jason watched him for a moment, then stood and left without a word.
Dina leaned forward, voice trembling. "Keith, my dear… you're growing thinner every day. If you don't learn to control this... this oversensitive nature, you won't survive."
Keith didn't look up. "Mom... you're not a good mom."
"What?!" she gasped. "Are you saying that because of Mr. Richard?"
Keith said nothing. Instead, he sighed—then flung his plate at her. It shattered, shards striking her arms as she shielded herself.
"Ouch! What the hell are you doing? Have you gone mad?!" she screamed.
Keith stood now, his voice sharp and raw. "Remember when you hurt the maid's daughter the same way? It hurt her just like it hurts you now. You know why? Because she was human—just like you."
Dina froze. She had never seen this version of her son before.